All That Matters
by editor frog
Summary: The second installment in the "pool scene" perspective piece series; this time from the point of view of a certain consulting detective. Companion piece to "All the Difference" and "All According to Plan;" can be read together or as a stand-alone.


**Many people liked my version of the pool scene from John's perspective ("All the Difference"), and for those who wanted Sherlock's view of things, I give you this. Remember, writers like to know if their work is good or crap. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Evening."

It is the _last _voice he should hear. Of course there will be a voice _(stolen or otherwise, there will always be peril present)_, but _this_ voice should be safe; curled up in Sarah's flat, lilo or sofa _(which one is not important)_, at home in the flat, watching telly or working on his laptop, or even…

_Anywhere_ but here.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

He pauses. There's a hitch in John's voice _(slight, very slight, but present)_, as though the words are not his own. John speaks again, but now all he hears is the smaller man's voice _(more hitches, pauses—something is _not right_)_.

John's movements are very slight as well _(calculated, to be precise)._ He inches closer, wondering what has befallen his flatmate, when John opens the thick parka _(not a coat John would wear, not ever)_.

The flashing red light. The thick square bricks of explosive. _Enough to take down a house, _he remembers Lestrade commenting earlier in the week.

_(Forget the house. Not important. All that matters is in front of you.)_

John is speaking again, parroting words not his own. The man speaks until his voice breaks _(and it does, it breaks, like hand-blown glass)_ and he calls out for John to stop. His eyes flitter rapidly around the confines of the pool deck, searching for his quarry _(searching for the puppet-master, the clever criminal whose name mortals fear to speak)_.

When Moriarty finally reveals himself, he is not terribly surprised. _(Well, maybe a little surprised, but not terribly.)_

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

_(Strange that he sounds like a girl. No wonder he 'borrowed' others' voices.)_

"Both." _(Not like __he wasn't going to prepare, but then, he didn't expect _this_)_.

As the criminal natters on, his eyes continue to focus on John. His flatmate looks so small, _(even smaller than normal, though not physically possible)_ buried under layers of thick cloth and explosive. He parlays back _(consulting criminal, _brilliant_)_, but all he can really see is John, trying to sink invisibly into the background _(and would do so, if not for the target on his front)_.

"Are you all right?"

It is the only pressing concern now. He has found Moriarty; has given him a face, and a _voice_, and now cares only for the well-being of the only truly good man he knows _(because John deserves better than this; better than to die helpless and afraid)_. When John tips his head in affirmation, it is as though a great weight is lifted from his shoulders.

"Take it." He hands over the plans _(because that's what this is all about; classic misdirection)_, hoping that they are enough to stall what may well be inevitable.

"Oh, the missile plans." Moriarty takes them as though they were a lost treasure _(insufferable bastard, the _real_ treasure lies behind you)_. He is very surprised, then, to see them so carelessly tossed into the chlorinated water.

There are sounds, and then a blur of color and motion. All he can make of it is a voice _(and what a voice it is; a steady anchor in a world of chaos) _shouting at him to _run (escape would lead to preservation, but not important now)._

He hears Moriarty's cackling laugh _(the laugh of witches, and things that frighten small children and even a brilliant genius at times)_, hears John lay everything out on the table. He sees John's face slacken when a small pinprick of light burns into his temple.

_(Cannot do it; cannot let him sacrifice himself for nothing. There is no gain in it.)_

"Do you know what happens, Sherlock, if you don't leave me alone?"

He considers this a moment. _(Obvious.)_

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed."

Moriarty chuckles. "No, don't be obvious."

_(Even geniuses slip sometimes. Ask John, he'll tell you.)_

The criminal continues: "I'll burn you. I will burn…the _heart_…out of you."

He smiles. _(Poor thing. Doesn't realize.) _

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

Moriarty's eyes shift, ever so slightly, towards John. "But we both know that's not _quite _true."

_(Damn.)_

The insidious man takes his leave_ (finally)_, and he waits a moment _(because, after all, the criminal _loves _misdirection)_.

Nothing.

He springs into action, peeling the layers of fabric and Semtex from his flatmate's _(scratch that, his _friend's_) _chest. It isn't until the hateful device is removed _(and away, far away from John as possible) _that he thinks to be certain the threat is neutralized. When he returns, he sees John curled into himself, leaning for support on a beam near the changing room wall _(shock, it's shock, where's Lestrade's damn blanket when you need it?)_.

There is a need to speak, to voice himself. "That thing…that thing you offered…to do, that was…that was…um, good."

_(Oh, yes. Very elegant. Cat got your tongue?)_

He does not expect John to be so cavalier about it though. Then he realizes: John is making a joke. _(Funny thing, shock. Will have to research it at some point in the near future.)_

It isn't until John starts to rise that he sees them, the little dots covering two chests instead of one.

_(Damn. And we were so _close_…)_


End file.
